Brody and the Beast
by DetectiveMinerva
Summary: Martin Brody has always feared the water. Now, he must face his demons, in the form of the rushing ocean and a killer great white shark. The final scene of "Jaws," Brody's POV.


I've always loved _Jaws_ , but never worked up the courage to write a story about the movie until now. This is the film's climactic man vs. shark battle, written from Martin Brody's POV - my thoughts on what was going through his head while he was facing the shark and his demons. In honor of the 40th anniversary of _Jaws_ , here is Brody's story.

To my buddy HAFanForever, this one's for you. Thanks again for such a great title!

* * *

 _Two down, one to go._

That's what every sound I hear seems to say, echoing the thought I'm sure is running through that shark's head. Just thinking he's gloating right now makes me want to puke. Oh yeah, I _wanted_ to puke at the thought of going out on the _Orca_ and being stranded in the middle of the Atlantic for days on end, looking for a monster as slick as Satan himself. I wanted to puke when I was throwing that chum out in the water to try and bait the freaking fish. I wanted to puke when Quint and I pulled that cage out of the water and Hooper was gone. Most of all, I wanted to puke when the shark killed Quint. Just tore him up like a steak and dragged him underwater.

And things have only gone from bad to worse. The door of the _Orca_ 's wheelhouse has just slammed shut, and I'm yanking on it, trying to get it open so I can get my butt out. The boat is sinking thanks to three tons of great white jumping on it, the ocean's pouring in like it has nowhere better to go, and now the door is _locked_ and I'm trapped like a goldfish in a bowl. _Gotta get out, gotta get out…_

The water's rushing all around me and I can feel the current pulling the boat downward. A few more minutes and the whole thing'll be underwater, me with it. My stomach heaves again at the thought of drowning. Ever since I came to Amity, people have picked at me right and left for being afraid of the water. Doesn't matter how many times I tell them my story, they still take it as free license to mock the big, bad police chief who's too chicken to even wade. Yeah, they'd all be laughing out the other side of their mouths if _they'd_ gotten tangled in a fishnet in a pond in upstate New York. _Just because I know how to swim doesn't mean I like the water,_ I'd always say. No, it was never good enough. They never knew what it was like for me when I was a kid, getting my feet caught in that net and dragged beneath the surface, all that water burning my nose, the taste of pond algae and fish filling my mouth.

All I taste now is salt, the seawater stinging my throat. The smell in the air isn't moldy like the pond. It smells like brine, smoke from the burned-out engine, and copper from the blood floating in the water – Quint's blood. I yank on the door some more, praying for a miracle. When the door still won't give, I flounder across the wheelhouse to find another exit, anything before I lose it. _Gotta get out, gotta get out…_

 _CRASH!_

Glass shatters and wood splinters into a million pieces, and I whip around just in time to see the shark come crashing through the wheelhouse like a battering ram. For a good minute, I can't even move. All I can do is stare at the beast like an idiot, horrified and fascinated at the same time. The first thing I notice is its eyes, and it suddenly hits me that Quint was right.

 _Sometimes that shark, he looks right into ya, right into your eyes. Y'know, the thing about a shark, he's got… lifeless eyes, black eyes… like a doll's eyes. When he comes after ya, he doesn't seem to be livin'… until he bites ya, and those black eyes roll over white, and then… aw, then you hear that terrible high-pitched screamin', the ocean turns red, and in spite of all the poundin' and the hollerin', they all come in and rip ya to pieces._

I swear that shark _does_ look right into me. He probably sees fear, but on my end, I see nothing. There's _nothing_ behind those eyes, which are so black, they look demonic. The next minute, all I see is teeth. Three or four rows of gigantic, razor-sharp teeth, all of 'em bloody, with bits of Quint's – and possibly Hooper's – flesh still hanging from them.

At this moment, something inside me snaps. I don't feel scared anymore. I feel _mad._ It's like this evil, soulless monster is grinning at me, showing me the evidence of murder. _Look what I did,_ he's probably saying. _I tore your friend up and had him for lunch, and there's nothing you can do about it, 'cause you're next, pal._

 _No, I'm not!_ I feel like screaming. I've had enough. No more running from my demons, no more being scared of the water. I've got to save Amity, my wife, my boys, not just from a shark, but from evil.

 _I can do anything. I'm the chief of police._

 _Then act like it, Martin. Kill that beast before it kills you._

Right then and there, I say a quick prayer for help. _God, help me. Show me the way to go home. Help me fight this monster._ I open my eyes and there's one of Hooper's oxygen tanks floating in the water. _Thank you, thank you!_ I grab the tank and face the shark, who's still trying to get to me, jaws chomping away. _Take this, you slimy bugger,_ I think, ramming the tank into the shark's snout. Thank God, the blow stuns him so much that he rears back in the water, opening his mouth long enough for me to throw the tank in. I guess he doesn't want to risk another whack on the puss, because he backs off into the ocean. No doubt he's good and mad and plotting his revenge. Well, bring it on. I'm ready for him now.

I slog through the water and climb up to one of the wheelhouse's front windows. God must really be looking out for me, because it's unlocked. I push it open and haul myself out, clinging to the lines for dear life. As I clamber up to the top of the wheelhouse, I look back out over the sea. There, cutting through the waves like a knife, is the shark's dorsal. He speeds along before I see his fin sink back underwater, and now I know there's no more farting around. Thankfully, Quint left one of his guns on top of the wheelhouse, as well as a wooden harpoon, so I grab both. I cock the gun, grab the harpoon, and start climbing the mast.

Anybody watching me would probably think I was trying to get as far away from the water as possible. They'd be right, but not because I'm a coward. I'm trying to put as much distance between myself and that shark as possible, so I can stay alive and get a good shot. It's me or him now.

Apparently, he's got the idea that it's going to be him, because next thing I know, he explodes out of the water, jumping to get at me. Praise God, the tank is still lodged in his mouth. My first instinct is to grab the gun and start shooting at him, but then I remember Quint. He squeezed off round after round at the shark, and all he did was give the fish a new belly button or two. _Forget it._ I get a good grip on the harpoon and stab it into the shark's head, hard enough to penetrate his skin. With every stab I make, every bit of blood I draw, I'm rattling off names – the names of the people this beast has killed. _That's for Chrissie Watkins!_ I think with the first jab of the harpoon. _For the dog! Alex Kintner! Ben Gardner! The man in the pond! Hooper! Quint!_

Seven times I jam that harpoon through his skin, and the seventh stab – the one for Quint – is so hard, it gets lodged in his mouth. He yanks it right out of my hands and disappears underwater, and this time, it's no more Mr. Nice Guy. Clinging to the mast with my legs, I prep the gun and wait for him to rear his ugly head again. Sure enough, he's come back around, and I see his dorsal poking up out of the water, tail swishing behind him.

"All right, all right," I mutter to myself as I take aim. "Come on, show me the tank. Show me the tank. Blow up!"

He has yet to surface, but he's charging what's left of the boat. I shut one eye tight and fire a round at his dorsal. Of course, it misses, and he just picks up speed. I fire again, and this one slices through the water, just short of his head. This time, the noise is enough to make him surface, and there he is, black eyes boring into me as he keeps on swimming. _You're not gonna win, Brody,_ he seems to say. _You're an incompetent wuss and you always will be._

 _Wuss this._ The shot hits him this time, right on the side of his snout. Blood spews out of the bullet hole, turning the foam of the oncoming waves red. By now, I'm seeing red myself. "Blow up!" I shout, firing another shot. The bullet zings to the bottom of the sea, and the shark zooms closer. _Pow!_ The shot slugs him in the snout and blood gushes into the oncoming whitecaps, and now he's closing in for the kill.

 _No way! No way am I gonna be your next blue plate special, pal! Dear Lord, give me this shot!_ "Smile, you son of a..." The word I swear at the shark is lost in the shot of the gun as I pull the trigger.

 _KABLAM!_

The explosion rocks the ocean. Half the sea rockets into the air as the tank blows up, and the white water suddenly turns red, a geyser of blood, skin, and shark meat. At first, I'm poleaxed at what I just did, but then, it hits me. _It's dead! I did it!_ We _did it!_ I'm so happy, I let out a roar of laughter. _It's over! Thank you, God; it's over! I'm free,_ I think to myself, surprised at the feeling of peace that sweeps over me. When I killed the shark, I killed my fears and demons. Although the mast is now fully in the water and I'm pretty much floating on it, I'm not scared anymore. The ocean's not trying to pull me down like some demon from hell. It's gentle, lapping around me and keeping me cool in the heat beating down. I laugh again, more to myself than anything. It's a perfect moment. The only thing spoiling it is knowing Hooper and Quint aren't here to share it with me.

 _Wait a second. What's that?_ I hear something bubbling about twenty, maybe thirty feet to my right, and for a second, my heart almost stops. _Please tell me that shark didn't have friends,_ I think, not daring to look. Whatever it is, it's coming closer, but it doesn't sound like a charging shark. It's the sound of someone swimming nearby. _It can't be..._ I turn my head, and I'm surprised my jaw doesn't drop right into the water. _Hooper! Matt! He survived!_ At this point, I hear myself let out another laugh of relief. God really was watching over us.

Hooper chuckles as he reaches me, and I can see a big smile on his face. He knew. He saw the whole thing. _You dog,_ I want to joke to him. He probably escaped the cage before the shark could get to him and hid out at the bottom, and no doubt he saw the shark explode from wherever he was. Now, we can share the victory together. What a gift. We laugh together for a minute or two, rejoicing in a job well done, and then Hooper says one word that breaks the happiness. "Quint?"

Despite the incredible joy I feel, sadness creeps in. "No," I say softly, shaking my head. Hooper's smile vanishes, and we both bow our heads to honor Quint. True, he was a little nutty, but Hooper and I both respected him. He was someone you couldn't help liking, especially when you knew his story. And he was brave, no denying it. One thing's for sure, his death wasn't in vain. He'll be remembered. Hooper and I will see to that.

 _But we've gotta get home first._ After our moment of silence, I turn my head and nod at the remains of the _Orca:_ the wooden planks, the yellow barrels we used to bring up the shark. "Can we get in on those?" Hooper just looks at me and grins. Right then, I know it's like asking Noah if the ark can float. Of course we can get in on them. So, we lash the planks together and make a raft, using the barrels as floats. With the two of us clinging to it like monkeys, we kick off and make a beeline for shore.

"Hey," I say to Hooper in between kicks, "what day is this?"

Hooper pauses to think. "It's Wednesday... uh, it's Tuesday, I think."

"I think the tide's with us," I comment. Either that, or the Lord's giving us a shove to shore.

"Keep kickin'," Hooper spurs me on, so I do. I'm breathing hard and I can feel the burning in my legs, but it's a good kind of burn. It's worth it if we can get back to shore, tell everyone they're finally safe, and if I can hug my boys, kiss Ellen, and tell them all I love them.

Thinking about this, I chuckle. No one's gonna believe it when they hear the whole story, or when I tell them I'm not afraid of the water anymore. Either that, or they _are_ gonna believe it and make a big deal out of it. Knowing Larry Vaughan, he'll find some way to cash in by declaring this Martin Brody Day or some such crap. And Meadows? Jeez Louise, I can see the headline in the paper after he pumps me for the story: _Brody and the Beast._ I'll never hear the end of it.

Ellen's sure gonna be surprised when I tell her what happened. She won't believe I've finally faced my fear of the water. Maybe I'll prove it by taking her for a midnight swim. After this, she and I deserve some time together. Funny now how a swim sounds wonderful instead of scary. "I used to hate the water," I remark, half to myself, half to Hooper, who laughs. "I can't imagine why," he replies.

You know what? Neither can I.


End file.
